Infinite in Between

by Carolyn Mackler

  “Oww,” Mia said, pushing Sophie’s hand away.

  Mia’s parents were studying the wine menu and didn’t notice anything.

  “Hubba Hubba Boy,” Sophie whispered. “He’s at that table over there. I think he’s with his parents.”

  Mia followed Sophie’s gaze. The guy was their age, maybe a little older. His hair was sandy brown. He had broad shoulders and a square jaw. He was a definite hunk.

  Mine, Sophie mouthed.

  “Let’s say you were stranded on a desert island,” Sophie said the next night as she was washing her face with her acne soap. “And you could pick one person to have with you. Who would it be?”

  Mia sat on the edge of the tub. They’d seen Hubba Hubba Boy playing volleyball on the beach that morning. When he dove for the ball, they had to press their hands over their mouths to keep from cheering.

  “Hubba Hubba Boy,” Mia said. “You can rescue us in the lifeboat.”

  “First of all, finders keepers.” Sophie flicked some water at Mia. “And no offense, but if I came to the island, I’d put you in the boat, stay with Hubba Hubba, and make little hubbie babies.”

  Mia dried her arm with a towel and then flopped into a chair by the window. As she stared at the lights over the harbor, she thought about Hubba Hubba Boy. Maybe they’d meet on the beach when Sophie was upstairs in the hotel room. Maybe they’d fall in love, and it would be happily-ever-after. Maybe someday they’d be honeymooning on one of those cruise ships, their naked bodies wrapped around each other on a private deck.

  “What’s wrong?” Sophie asked. She was on the bed tapping at her phone.

  “Why?”

  “You’ve been staring out the window for ten minutes.”

  “Nothing really.” Mia tucked her legs under her. She’d just shaved them and they felt silky smooth. “Don’t laugh, but I’m thinking about my new goal. I want to kiss a gorgeous guy. I mean, I’m sixteen.” Mia snorted. “That’s geriatric in the world of first kisses. I’m owed something amazing.”

  Sophie shook her head.

  “What?” Mia asked.

  “Do you remember back when you were so bony and just had, you know, bumps instead of boobs? I feel like you’ve changed since you got pretty, like it used to be us and now it’s you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” Sophie said, staring at her phone again. “Forget it.”

  On the last day of the trip, Mia and Sophie were walking on the beach. It was New Year’s Eve day. Mia had her bikini on, yellow with white polka dots. She was swinging her hips, feeling sexy. Sophie was wearing a teal-green bathing suit with a blue sarong she’d bought from the gift shop.

  “Hey!” Hubba Hubba Boy splashed out of the ocean and walked toward them. “You’re staying at my hotel.”

  Mia’s heart started racing. He was even more gorgeous up close. His eyes were speckled, and he had a tiny scar on one cheek.

  “Yeah,” says Sophie. “We’re going home tomorrow.”

  “Where are you from?” he asked. He was looking at Mia.

  Mia’s throat tightened. Last summer, in California, she’d overcome her extreme shyness, but it still returned at the worst times.

  “Hankinson. That’s in central New York,” Sophie said. “What about you?”

  He glanced quickly at Sophie. “Colorado.”

  “I’m Sophie. This is Mia.”

  “I’m Marco.” Hubba Hubba Boy grinned. “Does she talk?”

  “Sorry.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “Mia’s a little weird.”

  Mia clenched her fists. She wanted to die right there on the sand.

  “Mia,” Marco said, nodding at Mia. “I’ve seen you around.”

  Mia could feel Sophie glaring at her. She still couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Peace out.” Marco started back down to the water but then turned and grinned at Mia. “Maybe I’ll see you in the ballroom tonight. A lot of people are going for New Year’s Eve.”

  Mia nodded and watched him splash into the water. She’d actually packed the perfect black dress. If she went down to the ballroom and she and Marco danced and the clock struck midnight, then—

  “Peace out?” Sophie grumbled. “Who even says peace out? And what kind of cheesy name is Marco? I liked him more from a distance.”

  Mia didn’t respond as she continued down the beach. She knew she wouldn’t go to the ballroom tonight. Sophie would sulk in the hotel room and Mia would feel guilty and they’d watch movies and Sophie would complain about how girls like us never have fun. Mia didn’t want to be a girl like us anymore. Plus, she was sick of Sophie calling her weird. She was over it.

  FEBRUARY

  WHITNEY

  DURING THE INTERMISSION of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Autumn skipped into the dressing room and kissed Whitney on the lips. It wasn’t a lesbian thing. It was just what Autumn was doing with all her friends this spring. Her boyfriend, Zach, said it was a turn-on.

  “Hey, superstar!” Autumn said, pulling back.

  “Thanks.” Whitney wiped her lips. She didn’t want Autumn’s bright-red lipstick to mess up her stage makeup. She was Maggie, the female lead. She had on a pale yellow dress with a white sash, and her hair was ironed straight with a flip at the end. Alicia, who had flown in to see the dress rehearsal, grumbled about the irony of Whitney being African American and playing a Southern belle.

  “You’re amazing,” Autumn said. “We’re all freaking out about how good you are. Kyra and Laurel are jealous that they didn’t get their acts together to audition.”

  Just then Kyra and Laurel wove their way through the art room, which was doubling as a dressing room with full-length mirrors and costume racks dividing the girls’ and boys’ sides.

  “Hey, famous lady,” Kyra said, sticking her butt out as she gave Whitney an air kiss.

  Laurel grinned sloppily at Whitney. Their eyes were all squinty and bloodshot. They must have smoked up before the play. Weed was something that Autumn, Kyra, and Laurel majorly bonded over. Guys thought it was cool that they were stoner chicks, but Whitney thought it was lame. She hated the smell of weed and would never put it in her lungs, especially after she’d almost died of pneumonia last year.

  “So,” Laurel said as she hopped onto a metal table and swung her feet back and forth. “Are you too famous to come with us to Key West over spring break?”

  “You guys are going to Key West?” Whitney asked. This was the first she’d heard about it.

  Laurel glanced at Autumn, who looked at Kyra.

  “My uncle,” Kyra said. “You know, Lucas’s dad? He said we could stay in his condo.” Kyra smirked. She wasn’t wearing her turquoise contacts, and her eyes were flat brown. “Too bad you think Lucas is a dick.”

  Whitney clenched her hands. Focus, focus. It was opening night. Her dad was filming her performance to submit to the summer acting program that she was applying to at NYU. She needed to kick ass, and Kyra couldn’t throw her off course.

  “Not like Lucas will be in Key West,” Laurel said. “All we have to do is buy the plane tickets.”

  “So what do you think?” Autumn asked. She took a squirt of Whitney’s frizz control and scrunched it into her hair. “Want to join?”

  Whitney dusted powder across her nose. Join. That meant the plan with her three closest friends had formed without her. It would happen whether she went or not.

  “Sure,” Whitney said. “It sounds cool. I just have to ask my mom.”

  “When your mom hears it’s us,” Laurel said, pushing off the table, “she’ll totally say yes.”

  “Yeah.” Kyra slung her arms around Laurel and Autumn. “We’re angelic. For stoner chicks, I mean.”

  Whitney tried to smile. She used to be the one they revolved around, and now she was the fourth wheel.

  “Whitney,” Ms. Godfrey called over. “Time to clear the dressing room.”

  Kyra, Laurel, and Autumn kissed her good-bye. Whitney’s cheeks felt tight. S
he wanted to get onstage again. Recently she was more comfortable acting than being part of real life.

  As she watched her friends leave, she noticed an oil painting propped on an easel by the supply cabinets. It was a self-portrait of a guy with long blond hair and green eyes. Whitney could tell immediately that it was Jake Rodriguez. People weren’t kidding when they said he was a good artist. But what really got Whitney were the words painted in black across his face.

  You’re braver than you believe.

  Maybe Jake Rodriguez was, but Whitney couldn’t say the same for herself.

  MARCH

  GREGOR

  “GREGOR?” HIS MOM called upstairs. “Does she drive an SUV? Because she’s pulling into the driveway.”

  Gregor was lying on his bed, his pillow over his face.

  “Are you going to get the door or do you want me to?” his mom asked.

  He was wearing jeans and the creased T-shirt he’d slept in last night. He glanced at the dusty leather journal on his nightstand. He never wrote in it. It wasn’t that he was depressed anymore. He was actually much better, and he was even playing drums again. But ever since his dad had died, he couldn’t open his journal.

  The doorbell rang. Gregor’s stomach lurched as he heard his mom say hi to Nadine. He could hear Nadine saying something back. He pulled his shirt over his head and briefly examined the path of reddish hair running from his navel down into his jeans. It was weird the way his body was changing when so many other things were frozen in time. He put on a clean gray T-shirt and sank back onto the bed.

  “Gregor?” his mom called upstairs in her forced cheerful voice. “Nadine’s here.”

  His therapist, Jude, had been the one who said go for it when Nadine asked him out. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice. Nadine was in band with him and Dinky and all their friends. If he said no, he’d look like a wuss.

  “Coming,” Gregor called. He walked slowly out of his room. All he could think about was how his dad used to harass Erica’s ex-boyfriend Russell whenever he picked up his sister. It had been a running joke in their family.

  Nadine was standing in the doorway. Her jeans were tight, her hair shiny, her lips pinkish red. It broke Gregor’s heart to see how hard she was trying.

  “Hey,” she said, “I like your house.”

  “Cool,” Gregor said, his voice cracking. “Thanks.”

  Gregor’s mom sighed. “So you’ll be back by dinner?”

  Nadine and Gregor both shrugged. They hadn’t made any real plans. Maybe food, maybe bowling, maybe a movie.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’m guessing around five.”

  “Well, have fun,” Gregor’s mom said. “I’m going to stop by Nana Margaret’s to check in on her.”

  Maybe it was twisted, but Gregor wanted his mom to tell them not to drink and drive, or to ask Nadine how she did on her road test. Just like how his dad used to do. Yeah, that was probably twisted. It would probably just make him feel worse.

  In the car, Nadine turned on a pop music station. It was a mild afternoon, and the trees were starting to bud. They passed some runners heading into Mount Olive Park. Gregor looked away. After their dad had died, Erica quit cross-country and started smoking. She wasn’t even secretive about her cigarettes. At first their mom let it go, but then they started fighting about it, screaming and slamming doors.

  “Do you like this song?” Nadine asked as a girl band from England came on.

  “It’s cool.”

  “I know it’s cheesy, but it gets stuck in my head. I have lowbrow taste.” Nadine glanced into the rearview mirror. “Weren’t you in orchestra last year? You played cello, right?”

  Gregor nodded.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  Gregor’s hands felt clammy. Jude would say, Be honest. Yeah, right. Like he was supposed to tell Nadine how his dad used to sit front and center at his cello recitals. After he’d died, Gregor never wanted to look into the audience and see that chair where his dad would have been. He slumped against the car window and pressed his cheek onto the cool glass.

  “Are you okay?” Nadine asked.

  “Actually, I don’t feel so good.” Gregor never thought about it until now, but what would his dad have said if he’d known Gregor had quit cello? The answer was obvious. He would have been disappointed in him.

  “Do you want water? Should I pull over?”

  Gregor shook his head. “I’m sorry . . . I think I need to go home.”

  Erica was tying her sneakers in the kitchen.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, standing up quickly. She was wearing her running clothes. “Didn’t you go out with Nadine Turner?”

  Gregor poured a glass of water. He was already dreading school on Monday. Maybe he’d take a sick day. He didn’t want everyone giving him a hard time about bailing on Nadine.

  “I’m heading out.” Erica reached onto the hook by the door for a set of house keys. “Tell Mom I’ll be back later.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Gregor shrugged. He couldn’t deal with his sister right now. Once she was gone, he walked over to the closet where they stored his cello when it got shipped back from Michigan. He wasn’t even sure who’d gotten it from the practice room at music camp.

  He slid out the huge brown box and carefully tipped it onto its side. He tore off the packing tape and shoveled through Styrofoam peanuts until he reached his cello case. All four strings were loose. He was just lifting his cello onto his lap to tune it when he saw a piece of stationery at the bottom of the case. It said Gregor in small neat handwriting. He unfolded the paper.

  Gregor,

  I’m so sorry about your dad. You’re awesome at cello and an overall great guy. I’m so glad I met you. Stay in touch, okay? I bet your dad was proud of you.

  Love,

  Ava

  It had been eight months, and he could still smell Ava and feel her skin. It was tough thinking about her, being transported to the before. Back then, he had no idea there even was a before until he crashed hard into the after.

  Gregor tuned the strings, pulled out the endpin, and tightened it into place. He started with Mozart, his dad’s favorite.

  ZOE

  “GREAT TO MEET you!” Zoe forced a smile as she looked at her reflection in her full-length mirror. She had a job interview in twenty minutes and was practicing her answers. As with swimsuits, she and mirrors were not the best of friends.

  She was applying to be a part-time barista at Bean. The manager’s name was Kenny. Zoe had talked to him on the phone yesterday.

  Kenny is thirty, Zoe imagined as she slid on a silver headband. He’s a heavyset guy with a buzz cut and baggy jeans.

  Zoe pictured Kenny sitting at a table near the brick wall. Tell me about yourself, he’d say.

  I grew up in Southern California, she’d respond.

  Stop! Smile. Zoe tried to smile, but it looked like a constipated grimace.

  I’ve lived in Hankinson since the beginning of high school. I love to cook. I have my license and a car. I’m really responsible—

  Zoe imagined Kenny cutting her off.

  Is it true that your mom is Sierra Laybourne? he’d say. Are you the spoiled brat from that video? Why the heck are you asking me for a job?

  Zoe scowled at the mirror and then turned away. She should forget this whole idea. It wasn’t like she needed money. She wanted to work at Bean because her afternoons were bleak. Ever since choir had gotten switched to mornings, she’d walk to the student parking lot after school alone. Sometimes she’d see Whitney or even that redheaded guy from her freshman orientation group. They’d be laughing with friends and she’d think, Wow, they’re doing high school so much better than I am.

  Then Anna texted her on Monday. Her best friend had an afternoon job at a candle shop across from Bean and had noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window.

  Zoe turned back to the mirror. She slid off her headband, unbuttoned
her tailored blouse, and tugged on a simple T-shirt. No expensive clothes. Nothing from LA.

  Thanks for coming, another version of Kenny would say to her. Maybe he was Asian with angular hair and skinny jeans.

  Thanks for having me, Zoe would say. They’d be at a table by the door. That was where she and Anna used to sit when they went to Al-Anon freshman year and would go to Bean for a brownie after.

  I googled you this morning, this Kenny would say. Can you get me an autograph?

  Zoe shook her head. It wasn’t her fault that her mom was Sierra Laybourne. But it was her fault the way she couldn’t face it so much that she hid from the world.

  “Lame,” she sniped at her reflection. Then she grabbed her car keys and walked downstairs.

  JAKE

  Jake: Hey, ML! How’s life in Atlanta? I’m in German, but it’s quiet reading time. Want to hear an awesome German word? Lebensabschnittspartner.

  Mona Lisa: Lebenwhat?

  Jake: It’s the German word for the person you’re hooking up with . . . today.

  Mona Lisa: Are you suggesting that’s what I call my next fuck buddy?

  Jake: Uh-oh. Mr. Fritz is waving me up to his desk.

  Mona Lisa: Busted for texting? Delete this conversation. I just said fuck buddy. Oops, I said it again.

  Jake: I’m back. Oh shit.

  Mona Lisa: What?

  Jake: Oh. Shit.

  Mona Lisa: WHAT???

  Jake: I had a stomach bug during the SATs last week. I’m taking a makeup at a school thirty minutes away next Saturday.

  Mona Lisa: And . . . ?

  Jake: Mr. Fritz is the football coach.

  Mona Lisa: I’m confused.

  Jake: He is TED’S football coach. He told me that Ted has to take the SAT makeup too.

  Mona Lisa: Oh shit.

  Jake: He said Ted needs a ride. He asked if I’d drive him.

  Mona Lisa: What did you say?

  Jake: I’m trying to breathe.

  Mona Lisa: TELL ME WHAT YOU SAID!

  Jake: Yes.

  Mona Lisa: Looks like somebody’s about to get himself a Lebensabschnittspartner.